


Remembrance

by Chantress



Series: And Yet Here We Are [9]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: And yet he has SO MANY of them, Angst, Background Character Death, Established Relationship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Hand Jobs, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Mortality, Multi, Polyamory, References to Miscarriage, Voyeurism, WHOOPSIDOODLE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23117992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chantress/pseuds/Chantress
Summary: Geralt forgets, sometimes, that humans age and die.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: And Yet Here We Are [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614133
Comments: 50
Kudos: 443





	Remembrance

"...And your usual room is available," the innkeeper continues, adjusting the squirming baby on her hip with practiced ease. "I'll have some hot water sent up directly. Will you be wanting your meal there, as well?"  
  
Geralt glances at his lovers; Yennefer makes an "it's up to you" gesture in response, but Jaskier is already looking hopefully around the inn's common room, no doubt assessing the space's potential as a performance venue.  
  
"Down here," Geralt says. "As long as you don't mind an impromptu concert afterwards."  
  
The innkeeper grins at the sight of Jaskier's lute case. "Nothing better for drink sales." She leans closer. "And from the looks of things, nothing better for a certain Witcher's heart, either. It's good to see you happy for once."  
  
Geralt returns the smile, although with a slightly sheepish tinge. "Thanks, Geraldine."  
  
He notes the significant look Yennefer and Jaskier exchange at this, but thankfully they hold off on saying anything until they're in the privacy of their room.  
  
It's not the most lavish of accommodations, but the bed is large enough to fit all three of them if they're friendly (which they most certainly are), and the worn quilts spread on it smell of sweet herbs and sunshine. Jaskier immediately flops onto it with a pleased groan.  
  
"Oh yes, this is _nice_ ," he says. "Is it too late to have our supper brought up here after all? I think this bed's trying to swallow me whole."  
  
"Like you'd give up the chance for a captive audience," Yennefer says, pouring out a measure of hot water to start washing away the grit of the road.  
  
Geralt sits on the bed to remove his armor, nudging Jaskier's leg with his own. "And if you're lucky, the bed won't be the only thing swallowing you whole tonight."  
  
Jaskier peers up at him. "Promise?"  
  
Geralt leans down for a kiss, soft and slow, but with a curl of heat underneath. "After supper," he says. "Which we're still eating downstairs. I won't repay Geraldine's hospitality with crumbs on her sheets."  
  
Yennefer laughs. "As if crumbs are the worst thing we could possibly leave there." She throws the towel at Geralt, who catches it neatly and stands to take his turn at the washbasin.  
  
It's while he's splashing water on his face that Yennefer decides to spring. " _Geraldine?_ " she says, with that certain smug edge to her voice that means she's caught the scent of something the other party may not want her examining too closely. "I take it the name's not a coincidence."  
  
Geralt hums noncommittally, rubbing the towel over his face as much to avoid looking at her as to dry off. "...It's not."  
  
"Oh yes?" Jaskier's finally managed to extract himself from the bed's embrace, and snatches the towel away from Geralt, ostensibly to perform his own ablutions, but the interested glint in his eyes tells a different tale.  
  
Geralt shifts his shoulders uncomfortably, not quite a shrug, and definitely _not_ a squirm. "There's not really a story there. Her father, Symon, used to run this inn. I rescued his betrothed from some nekkers as I was passing through, and the couple decided to name their firstborn after me in gratitude. Not my fault it turned out to be a girl instead of a boy."  
  
Jaskier hoots with laughter. "How have you never told me about this before?" he asks, playfully swatting Geralt's arm with the towel. "Especially given how familiar your remarkably busty namesake down there was with you. Not your first return visit, I'd wager."  
  
"No." Geralt makes that small not-a-shrug gesture again. "I don't come this way often, maybe once every few years. But the family's gratitude seems to have lasted."  
  
_More than gratitude_ , he doesn't say. This inn is one of the few places where people seem to be genuinely fond of him rather than grudgingly tolerant of his presence (or, since Jaskier's campaign to improve his public image, worshipfully awestruck, which is hardly better). It's not a particularly refined establishment, but the beds are free of vermin, the plates are generously heaped, and no one spits in Geralt's ale before serving it to him.  
  
And it's... nice, to catch up with Symon and Marisa when he stays here, get included (however briefly) in their mundane joys and sorrows. He's watched their children grow, get married, have children of their own. He's sat up late with them, listening to Symon's concerns about the poor harvest, and providing a space for Marisa's quiet sorrow over the babe born too early to have a chance at life.  
  
They're not his family, they can't truly understand his life and its hardships, just as he can't always relate to their own struggles. But even so, it soothes something inside him, that same aching place that only Yennefer and Jaskier have ever been able to get close to. And so, awkwardness aside, it seems only fitting that Geralt bring his lovers here, share this small and precious part of his life that's always been separate from them before now.  
  
The evening meal is simple, but satisfying--pork with herbed and roasted vegetables, fresh bread and butter, a fruit tart for dessert--and Geraldine is quick to respond to the slightest hint that second helpings would be welcome.  
  
Afterwards, Geralt settles in with a mug of ale and an arm around Yennefer's shoulders as Jaskier performs for the crowd in the common room, a mixture of bawdy drinking songs that everyone can sing along to and some of Jaskier's own, more romantic compositions.  
  
"I can certainly believe that man went to Oxenfurt," Yennefer comments in an undertone at one point, as Jaskier solicits suggestions from the delighted audience for new verses to a perennial favorite. "A song where half the lyrics are just 'nuts, nuts, hot nuts'? Yes, that's _truly_ the pinnacle of intellectual achievement."  
  
Geralt chuckles into his ale. "You usually aren't this critical of his music."  
  
"I usually don't know for a fact that it's going to get stuck in my head for days on end. _Again_."  
  
Geralt laughs again, and kisses the sour look off Yen's face.  
  
A little later in Jaskier's set, when he's moved on to a slower ballad about lovers separated by tragic circumstance, an older woman approaches their table. Geralt rises to greet her, meeting her smile and handclasp with his own.  
  
"Well now," she says, eyes twinkling as she notices Yennefer, "what's this you've brought me this time, my dear?"  
  
"Marisa, this is my... this is Yennefer," Geralt says. "Yen, this is Marisa."  
  
"A pleasure," Yennefer says, looking like she actually means the sentiment for once. "The bard's ours as well, as you may have guessed."  
  
Marisa grins wickedly. " _Two_ fine men? However did you manage that?"  
  
"They followed me home," Yen drawls, "and now I can't get rid of them."  
  
Both women cackle at that. Geralt isn't entirely sure introducing the two of them is the wisest idea he's ever had, but at least they seem to be getting along well.  
  
"So, Geralt has been something of a regular guest here, as I understand it," Yennefer says, gesturing to a free chair at their table, which Marisa takes with no hesitation. "How exactly did that happen? I got the, ah, Geralt version of events, but I'd be interested in hearing some actual details."  
  
Geralt clears his throat, uncomfortable at the thought of having to sit through another glowing account of his deeds; it's bad enough when it's Jaskier embellishing his adventures for a paying audience, but Marisa's forthright affection when she praises him is something else entirely. And for Yennefer to hear it on top of that...  
  
"I'll leave you two to get acquainted," he says, leaning down to snatch a kiss from Yen and squeeze Marisa's shoulder. "Is Symon in the back? I'll go catch up with him." It was unusual for the man not to have come out to greet Geralt before now, but after the incident with the stray wine barrel some ten years ago that had cost Symon most of the use of his left leg, Geralt doesn't blame him for staying in the warm kitchen with his feet up instead.  
  
Marisa's indrawn breath, the slight catch in it, tell Geralt all he needs to know before she even speaks a word.  
  
"Geraldine didn't tell you?" she says.  
  
Geralt closes his eyes for a moment, swallows against the instinctive denial that wants to escape his throat. "When," he says instead.  
  
"Three winters ago," Marisa says. "A fever that lingered, and then settled in his lungs. It was quick at least, thank Melitele, and the children had a chance to say goodbye before the end."  
  
"May the soil lie lightly upon him," Geralt murmurs automatically, squeezing her shoulder again.  
  
"Geralt--" Yennefer begins. The sympathy in her violet eyes is an almost physical weight on him, too heavy to stand up against.  
  
"It's fine," Geralt says, cutting her off. "I'll just go up to our room. I need to look after my armor anyway. Lovely to see you again, Marisa."  
  
The cheerful strains of Jaskier's singing follow Geralt up the stairs as he beats a hasty retreat; he didn't think it was possible for "The Fishmonger's Daughter" to sound ominous, but now each note only serves to add to the roiling mess of confusion in Geralt's gut.  
  
Once upstairs, with the door firmly closed behind him, Geralt finally feels able to breathe again. With that breath comes a certain clarity, and Geralt embraces the sharpness of it, painful though it is, cutting through the knot of conflicting impulses within him as he begins to oil his armor and check its fastenings.  
  
Geralt forgets, sometimes, that humans age and die. He never stays in one place long enough to observe their shorter lifespans firsthand, and so most people he encounters live in a strange limbo in his mind, caught forever in the same stage of their lives as they were when they first crossed his path. The futility of it might paralyze him otherwise: saving someone from deadly peril, only for them to succumb to the weight of their own mortality anyway a scant handful of years later.  
  
Symon and Marisa's family have been one of the few exceptions. For once, the temptation of feeling truly wanted was greater than his caution, and he allowed himself to be tugged into the outer orbit of their little clan, a familiar interloper, forever unchanged to their eyes save for a few more scars now and again.  
  
It hurts, yes, but it's a pain Geralt should have anticipated. It's not like he hadn't noticed the threads of silver overtaking the black of Symon's hair, the lines of laughter and sorrow on his face that ran a little deeper with every visit, the increasing stiffness of his movements even before that wayward barrel crushed his leg. It's the way of things, no more, no less; Geralt doesn't have to like it, but he can accept it easily enough.  
  
By the time he's finished with his armor, Geralt feels more settled. There's still a melancholy tinge in the corners of his mind, a mild pang of disappointment that he can't sit with Symon to share a pint and swap stories, but he no longer feels likely to do something regrettable in response to it if he doesn't hold himself tightly in check.  
  
Jaskier enters the room as Geralt is setting his armor aside, cheeks flushed with the heady joy of performing, still humming to himself like he can't stand to let the show come to a close just yet.  
  
Something about it crumbles the edifice of placid acceptance that Geralt's been constructing for himself. Jaskier's such a familiar, beloved presence, in all his varied moods and seasons. So why should the sight of him now feel like a bolt through Geralt's heart?  
  
"Geralt!" Jaskier says cheerfully, setting his lute down on a chair and unfastening his doublet. "You missed most of my set, I hope you realize that. Now, I can forgive you for being an introverted lump with no appreciation for the arts, but I thought you'd want to spend some quality time with your adoptive family, at least."  
  
"There'll be time enough tomorrow," Geralt says, only half hearing Jaskier's words. He steps closer, traces the line of Jaskier's throat with the tips of his fingers. It's never looked so precious, so _vulnerable_ to him before, even after the encounter with the djinn, and Geralt presses his lips to the sweet, hectic thrum of Jaskier's pulse, dragging his tongue over it as though he could burn the vitality of it into his own blood.  
  
Jaskier makes a soft sound, almost a sigh, almost the beginning of a word, tips his head back in utter surrender. Geralt clutches him close, breathes in his scent: sun and sky and springtime, tinged with the raincloud shadow of arousal on the horizon.  
  
"I don't want to remember," Geralt says fiercely, face still buried in Jaskier's neck. "Jaskier, I... help me forget. Just for a little while. Just for tonight."  
  
For once, Jaskier says nothing, only nods and leads Geralt to bed.  
  
There's no forgetfulness in Jaskier's embrace, no matter how much Geralt might wish it. Every touch, every moan, every whispered endearment and heated look is its own remembrance, and Geralt drinks them all in, greedy and guilty and desperate.  
  
_Not enough_ , he thinks, even as they both come, a breath and a heartfelt profanity apart, Geralt's hand wrapped around their cocks, Jaskier's hand folded over his as though in benediction.  
  
_It will never be enough._  
  
Jaskier drifts off to sleep with a sated smile still on his lips. But Geralt lies awake, tracing the faint lines on Jaskier's face and wondering when they'll grow too deep to deny anymore.  
  
"He won't keel over if you happen to blink, you know."  
  
Somehow, Geralt isn't surprised at Yennefer's presence. "How long have you been standing there?" he growls, ignoring her statement in favor of the familiar tug-of-war of this old argument.  
  
Yen grins across the bed at him, then slips off her dress and joins them, spooning in behind Jaskier, who mumbles and stirs a little before settling again as she strokes his hair. "What's the point of magic if I can't use it?" she says. "And you know how much I like to watch you two together."  
  
"I don't mind that part of it," Geralt says. "What I _mind_ is the gloating afterwards."  
  
"Poor little wolf," Yen coos. "I suppose I'll have to make it up to you later, then."  
  
"Hmm." But he acquiesces when Yennefer leans over Jaskier to kiss him, a fresh spark of desire already kindling at the thought.  
  
"Don't change the subject, though," Yen continues, after Geralt is breathless and half-hard from the tacit promise of her lips and tongue. "You have the look of a man who wants to punch death in the face, and can't decide how to go about it."  
  
Geralt looks away from her. "Don't be cruel, Yen. We all know this can't last forever."  
  
"Do we? Because at least one of us doesn't seem to have gotten that particular memo."  
  
Geralt peers at her. "What?"  
  
"You really _haven't_ noticed, have you."  
  
"Stop with the riddles and say what you mean to, damn it all!" Geralt growls. "You'll forgive me if I don't find the impending mortality of one of my lovers at all amusing."  
  
"Not so impending as all that," Yennefer says with a cryptic smile. "You remember Temeria? When I shoved the two of you into a room to work out your issues, because otherwise half the kingdom would have succumbed to terminal depression from the poor bard's heartbroken laments over you?"  
  
Geralt doesn't blush. He _doesn't_. "...Yes."  
  
"Well, it wasn't just his musical skills that were inspiring melancholy in everyone who heard him."  
  
"What are you saying, Yennefer?"  
  
"Jaskier has something of a magical gift. I'd suspected it before then, but I couldn't be sure until I saw it in action that day. It's not powerful in the classical sense, but it's... deep. Intense. Heartfelt. He can _will_ things into being true, just by singing them and really _meaning_ it."  
  
Geralt tries to swallow against the sudden dryness in his mouth. "How?"  
  
"Damned if I know," Yen says. "I can only assume it's an inborn ability; such things usually are. There's probably some sort of catalyst, though, something that's allowed him to channel his talent and use it to its full potential." She gives him a significant look.  
  
Geralt narrows his eyes at her. "The fucking _lute?_ "  
  
"Given that he only became popular as a musician after acquiring it, which also coincided with your own reputation's meteoric rise in the public eye?" Yennefer says. "You do the math on that one."  
  
Geralt groans and swipes a hand over his face. "So... what? You're saying Jaskier's immortal because he _decided_ to be?"  
  
"Because of you," Yen says gently. "He wanted to be with you, didn't want to leave you alone when he grew old and died."  
  
"That's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard," Geralt says. His chest feels too tight all of a sudden, too full of _something_ that feels dangerously close to laughter, or tears.  
  
Yennefer doesn't relent. "It's what you've been afraid of, too, even if you never consciously thought about it until tonight."  
  
" _Fuck._ "  
  
It's too much. There's no way he could ever begin to deserve this, even if he lived for a thousand lifetimes. Jaskier's always been right there, chasing after Geralt, holding out his heart in both hands even when Geralt snarled and shoved him away. And now, after Geralt's stopped running from it, when he's accepted this fleeting joy in all its bittersweet brevity, to be told that it's something he can have unconditionally, by pure grace...  
  
"In my defense," a quiet voice says, breaking through the churning morass of Geralt's thoughts, "it wasn't really a conscious decision on my part. At least, not at first."  
  
Geralt peers at Jaskier. "How long have you been awake?"  
  
"Long enough," Jaskier says with a sly grin.  
  
"You and Yen absolutely deserve one another," Geralt growls. "I should just leave and let you fuck each other unhindered."  
  
"Oh please," Yennefer says. "You'd be back in a week, begging us to let you watch."  
  
"I'd give him three days, tops," Jaskier says.  
  
Geralt growls again and buries his face in his hands.  
  
"As I was saying before you decided to bury your feelings under a pile of gruff bluster," Jaskier continues, patting Geralt's head, "I didn't really decide to stop aging, exactly. It just... happened. I guess spending so much time with you, it's hard to remember how time's supposed to affect non-Witchers. Oops."  
  
Geralt raises his head to eye Jaskier. "'Oops'? You completely alter one of the fundamental principles of the universe due to your own fucking absentmindedness, and all you have to say for yourself is _'oops'?_ "  
  
"Well, when you put it that way..." Jaskier says. "Maybe it _is_ more of a 'whoopsidoodle,' really."  
  
Geralt lets out a snort of startled laughter at that. And then Jaskier is bullying his way into Geralt's arms, warm and vibrant and overflowing with life, pulling Yennefer along with him, and Geralt just holds them both, lets himself do nothing but _feel_ for this one precious moment.  
  
Geralt forgets, sometimes, that humans age and die. But that's all right, because apparently Jaskier forgets, too.


End file.
